


Full of History and Secrets

by DoctorTrekLock



Series: Resolution19 [35]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Apocalypse, Asexual Relationship, Brief Vague Suicidal Thoughts, M/M, Temporary Canonical Major Character Death, The most adorable old people you've ever seen, hand holding, not a human AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 18:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20232457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock
Summary: They'd met at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Soho Square, London in 1967."I'm Crowley," he said. "Anthony Crowley, but most people call me Crowley." He held out his hand."Ezra Fell," the man said. "I sometimes go by Zira."He shook the offered hand and smiled. It was a warm smile, full of good humor, and for an instant, Crowley didn't even notice the temperature of the floor.





	Full of History and Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Mutually oblivious ineffable husbands AU  
Source: <https://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/186855536482/alright-this-is-so-dumb-but-ineffable-husbands-au>  
Title: "Night Vale is an ancient place. Full of history and secrets, as we were reminded today." _Welcome to Night Vale_, Ep. 4
> 
> Originally posted August 13, 2019 on [Tumblr](https://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/186982204047/full-of-history-and-secrets-august-13-2019)

They'd met at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Soho Square, London in 1967.

Crowley had been very carefully wrapping up a long-planned heist to acquire a bottle of holy water. It sounded like Hell was making big plans, and a demon on his own couldn't be too careful.

He'd just turned away from the font, the nearly-full bottle carefully sealed and held gingerly in two gloved hands, when the divine heat radiating from the floor became too much and he'd winced, pulling one foot up slightly and off-balancing himself enough that the bottle had slipped against the leather of his gloves and fallen out of his reach.

Crowley had watched in horror as the glass jar fell, absently calculating the trajectory of the splashing liquid when the bottle broke. How much of his trousers would get wet? Was enough of his ankle showing for him to be instantly dissolved, or would it take time for the water to soak through the fabric of his trousers?

Just before the jar hit the marble floor, however, a hand caught it and Crowley looked up to meet the eyes of a slightly shorter man wearing tartan, a bow tie, and a jacket cut in a style popular when Victoria had been queen.

"Here you go," the man said, handing the bottle back to Crowley. "Careful that you don't drop it again; that glass would be quite a bother to clean up."

He had the warmest blue eyes Crowley had ever seen. He was suddenly struck by the insane desire to see those eyes for the rest of his unnatural life.

He blankly nodded his thanks, reeling from the realization, and the man turned to go. Before he could stop himself, Crowley had blurted out "Would you like to grab a drink? As thanks," he clarified when the man looked surprised.

"I would be delighted," the man said slowly, as if he was surprised to find himself delighted at all, but not at all unhappy about the realization.

"I'm Crowley," he said. "Anthony Crowley, but most people call me Crowley." He cradled the sealed glass bottle carefully against his body to prevent any unforeseen breakage and held out his other hand.

"Ezra Fell," the man said. "I sometimes go by Zira."

He shook the offered hand and smiled. It was a warm smile, full of good humor, and for an instant, Crowley didn't even notice the temperature of the floor.

\--

One drink had turned into several drinks which had turned into dinner and then an invitation back to Zira's bookshop. Three drinks in, Crowley had accidentally let his sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose, but Zira's only reaction to his unnatural eyes had been a murmured "beautiful." Crowley had blushed to his toes. The evening hadn't gone further than two bottles of wine and a conversation about misprinted Bibles, but Zira hadn't seemed interested in anything more.

Crowley wasn't sure if he was relieved (because no matter how much he liked the man, "making an effort" always seemed like too much effort to bother) or disappointed (because he did very much enjoy spending time with the man and platonic relationships rarely had the intimacy or longevity that he was daydreaming about).

He needn't have worried. Crowley had given him the telephone number for his Mayfair flat, and Zira had called the next day, asking if he'd be interested in a turn about St. James Park and perhaps a spot of tea at the Ritz.

A walk and tea had turned into another evening spent at the bookshop. Crowley ordered take-out, and the pair spent the evening comparing all the places they had been. Zira seemed remarkably well-traveled for a man of his age, and Crowley was hard-pressed to name locations neither of them had ever been to.

Wine made another appearance, but Crowley was careful not to over-imbibe this time. Miraculous sobriety would be difficult to attain with a witness and he needed to stay on his toes. Zira was deceptively easy to talk to, and Crowley was finding it hard to keep censoring himself. He had to, though; it would be impossible to explain to a mortal how he'd watched the Romans paint their statues and then convinced the amateur archaeologists that really, scrubbing the paint off wasn't so bad fourteen hundred years later.

"I was at the Hanging Gardens once," Crowley reminisced. Then he remembered himself. "Er, where they think the Hanging Gardens were," he corrected. "They had seventeen different kinds of dates," he said wistfully. "According to this archaeology article I read in a magazine once," he added.

Zira didn't seem to find this at all odd.

"I was in Normandy around 10--er, 10 years ago. Took a good look at the Bayeux Tapestry," Zira told him. "It's aged pretty well. Shame about the missing bit at the end, though." He frowned. "I'm certain the last section was very lovely."

"Can I hold your hand?" Crowley blurted out. Then, appalled at himself, he flushed both hot and cold at once.

Zira looked startled, but not upset, which was much better than the alternative. Crowley had only just met the man the day before, but he was a kindred spirit of a sort he'd never found before, and Crowley was captivated despite himself. The last six thousand years had been much, much too lonely without anyone like Zira to spend time with. He would happily spend the rest of Zira's life with him, if that was what it took to memorize the way the bookseller's nose crinkled when he laughed.

"I'm sorry," Crowley said miserably, already berating himself for his impulsiveness. Just because England had just decriminalized homosexuality and Zira wore a bow tie and smiled at him didn't mean this was going to end in anything but tears. "Please don't be mad. Forget I asked."

"Not at all, my dear," Zira said, and rested his hand on top of Crowley's where it was curled loosely around the stem of his wineglass. "I'm not sure why you think I would be angry at you. It may be the 1960s, but I spent a lot of time with Oscar Wilde, er, Oscar Wilde _novels _when I was younger." He smiled then, and it crinkled his nose and the skin around his eyes, and Crowley was suddenly very, very glad that his corporation didn't need oxygen to survive, because he was finding it very difficult to breathe.

"Er," and Zira hesitated then, starting to draw back his hand. "You should know, though, that I've never...with anyone. I've just never felt the _need _to, and it's not that I don't like you, my dear, but it would be disingenuous to--"

He broke off. Crowley had reached his hand out and grabbed Zira's before it could fully withdraw, lacing their fingers together. "Me, too," he said simply. "Me, too, angel." And he wasn't sure where the nickname came from, but it made Zira smile again, wide and happy, so Crowley resolved then and there to use it as much as possible for the rest of all the eternity they could have.

"I'm glad," Zira said quietly. He lifted their joined hands and gently kissed the back of Crowley's fingers. Then he cleared his throat and told Crowley about his trip to Indonesia about "oh, fifteen years back, I believe." The whole time, he rubbed his thumb absently across the side of Crowley's palm.

They didn't let go all evening. It was the best night of Crowley's very, very long life.

He moved into Zira's bookshop a month later.

\--

The pair had been living together quite happily for just over forty years when Crowley came home one late night, white as a sheet.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Zira asked, obviously concerned, closing his book and setting it quickly aside. He hadn't even glanced at the page number, and that more than anything told Crowley how awfully he must look right now.

"I..." Crowley didn't know where to start. How did he explain to his partner that the Antichrist had just been delivered into his hands and the Apocalypse was at the door? Not for the first time, Crowley found himself tracing wrinkles and grey hair, marveling at the man who had spent half his mortal lifespan in Crowley's company and found it not at all lacking. Zira was still spry at eighty, but how could Crowley articulate the way that two, three, or even four decades had just been compressed into a mere eleven years?

Zira took his hand and squeezed it gently. "Cup of tea, I should think," he decided. "With a splash of brandy." Crowley trailed after him into the kitchen, not wanting to lose the comfort of the man's company.

Zira settled Crowley in his usual chair, set the water to boiling, and pulled out some digestives that had been sitting in the cupboard. "There you go, my dear," he comforted, running his hands soothingly along Crowley's shoulders. "Have something to eat." He dropped a kiss on the top of Crowley's head before the kettle whistled and he pulled away.

By the time the pair were comfortably settled at the table, each with a cup of tea (though Crowley's was more than half brandy) and a couple digestives, Crowley had decided on the best way to tell the man he loved about what was going on.

"You know how I said I had a work thing?" Zira nodded encouragingly. Crowley sighed and rubbed his forehead, breathing in the fumes from his spiked tea before taking a sip. "Well it got a little complicated."

Zira might have stumbled into Crowley's existence and changed the fabric of his eternity forever, but Crowley _was_ still a demon. Traditional temptations had never appealed to him, but even the most inventive nuisances had lost their charm after he'd met Zira. Unfortunately, he was still a demon, and Hell had quotas to fill.

He'd told Zira that he was independently wealthy, but still consulted on the side for tech companies. (Zira could barely turn a computer _on_, much less anything else - Crowley even kept the books for the bookstore - so he didn't worry about Zira asking too many questions about his profession.) That allowed him to travel around England, and sometimes even farther afield, getting up to the sort of mischief that Hell would find acceptable. Zira traveled quite a bit as well, meeting up with various rare book collectors across the world, so it wasn't a big deal. They tried to line up their schedules so as to be gone at the same time, though. Neither one of them liked staying in the bookshop by themselves.

He'd been summoned to a late meeting, he'd told Zira. Just a quick pop over to the west side of London, he'd be back before bedtime, he'd promised. It was now considerably later than their customary bedtime and a "quick pop" to Slough had turned into a hair-raising trip past Amersham with Lucifer's child in the backseat.

"One of my...colleagues just had a child," he improvised. "I'm...concerned about his parenting techniques."

Zira frowned and covered one of Crowley's hands with his own, mimicking their second night together. As always, Crowley threaded his fingers through his partner's. He had to be more careful about it these days: Zira's hands were fragile with age and Crowley had let arthritis creep into his own. But the feel of Zira's fingers warm around his never failed to make Crowley's breath catch in his chest.

"Can you call the NSPCC?" Zira asked, drawing Crowley's focus back to the problem child in the metaphorical room. "Aren't there people for this sort of thing?"

"I don't have anything concrete," Crowley admitted. The idea of setting the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children on the American ambassador and his family was amusing, but Crowley shuddered to think of the punishment that would await him Below for the idea. "Just a feeling that they're going to raise him..._wrong_."

Zira sipped his own tea, his forehead furrowed in concentration. This was why Crowley loved him. Because he would stay up too late on a Wednesday night and give his full attention to any odd problem, just because Crowley need him to. Again, Crowley traced his eyes over wrinkled features that were more dear to him than he'd ever thought possible. He'd shied away from imagining what his life would be like after Zira was-- The one time he'd attempted it, he'd had a terrible panic attack and Zira had had to coax him out of bed with tea and sugar cookies.

Now, with the horror of the looming Apocalypse still quickening the blood in his veins, he let himself think of a world that would end in eleven years. That would cut short Zira's life, yes, but might also end _his_. The Apocalypse didn't look nearly as bad with the promise that he wouldn't have to keep living for centuries after Zira's-- But Zira would never forgive him for that kind of thinking. Not his beloved Zira, who adored such human mundanities as dusty first editions, tea at the Ritz, and sushi restaurants.

Zira put his teacup down softly. "I'm sorry, my dear," he said gently. "I'm not sure what we can do. It's not as if we could raise the child ourselves. I'm sure the parents would object if nothing else, and-- My dear?"

Crowley loosened his grip from where he had suddenly clenched tightly around Zira's fingers in realization. "Angel," he breathed, excitement and hope blossoming in his chest.

"What is it, Crowley?" Zira asked.

"We--" Crowley stopped. He looked back down at where their fingers were intertwined. At the age spots on the back of Zira's hand and the way the skin was loose around his partner's delicate bones. He looked at Zira's face and saw the wrinkles that each year had painted on his features. His heart sank. He couldn't ask such a thing of Zira. Not after so many years of putting up with Crowley. He had earned every evening sitting with his books by the fire. He carefully lifted their hands and settled a gentle kiss on Zira's thin skin. "Nothing, angel," he murmured.

Zira hrumhphed and sharply pulled his hand out of Crowley’s grip, using the hand to lift Crowley’s chin until he met Zira’s eyes.

"Anthony James Crowley," Zira began, scolding Crowley. "I may be old, but I am not infirm. Whatever you have in mind, I promise it's not going to put me in the ground." Crowley’s wince must have been obvious because Zira's voice softened and his grip turned into more of a caress. "I promise you, my dear," he said gently. "It would take much more than whatever scheme you've concocted to get rid of me. Now tell me," he demanded. "Or I’m going to eat all the raisins out of your cereal."

And he would do it, too. That was another reason Crowley loved Zira. He might be the best of humanity and the best person Crowley had ever met, but he was also just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.

Crowley relented. He folded both his hands around Zira's. "We could--and I know this sounds crazy, angel, I do--but we could _help _raise the kid. The family's wealthy and I've never actually met either of the parents. We could be, I don't know, surrogate grandparents, nanny and gardener, tutors, I don't know."

Zira didn't respond right away, and Crowley's shoulders drooped a little. "It sounds crazy. I know. There's no real reason to, and..."

"It does sound a little...extreme," Zira said carefully, not moving his hands from Crowley's hold. His blue eyes were searching. "It means this much to you?"

Crowley didn't know how to explain how much, so he just nodded.

Zira pulled one of his hands loose so he could place it on top of Crowley's and pat them gently. "Then that's what we shall do, my dear."

\--

Raising Warlock Dowling with Zira was like nothing Crowley could have predicted. He hadn't anticipated how animated Zira would become when working with such a small child.

Crowley had taken the role of gardener, keeping an eye on the family from a distance and making sure his effect on the boy would be lessened. It wouldn't do to have unbalanced infernal influence on the Antichrist, after all. He'd made sure Zira got the nanny job, ensuring him plenty of shade and rest. Zira had given him a knowing look when Crowley had returned from the Dowlings' estate and announced that he'd found them both employ, but hadn't protested, which Crowley had taken as grudging acceptance.

Crowley had never had the inclination to imagine other lives with Zira. Why would he, when he had everything he'd never known he needed right in front of him? He'd never imagined meeting Zira during the Roman Empire or the French Revolution, because that would mean he would already be living in a post-Zira world, and that was unacceptable, no matter how much he thought Zira might have enjoyed meeting Virgil. He never allowed himself to imagine a universe where Zira was as immortal as he was. Another demon, or maybe an angel. Even a horseman or some other entity. He never let himself imagine, because that was far too painful.

He'd never imagined raising children with Zira. For one, he was a _demon_. For another, when they met, Zira had been a bachelor in his forties and Crowley had been a bachelor who appeared to be in his forties. There had been no space in their relationship to consider marriage and no chance of anything approaching adoption. Don't get him wrong, Crowley didn't need anything other than what he had. He had _Zira_, despite all odds, and that was more than enough for him.

Watching Zira with Warlock, though...Crowley began to realize the sort of shape that daydream might have taken.

Warlock's eleventh birthday eventually came, bringing with it two dozen of the most spoiled children in London, Zira's grand reveal that he'd practiced stage magic in his early twenties, and an overall increase in Crowley's stress to a severely unhealthy level.

Crowley's attention had been fractured by so many different things that he didn't realize until his partner had taken the stage that he'd yet to actually see Zira do any sleight of hand. It was so disheartening to see the man he loved being ridiculed by a gaggle of pre-teens, that Crowley turned all the agents' guns into water pistols and let the kids at it. He'd waded through the mess to find Zira and subtly corralled him back to the Bentley. It wasn't until they were both seated in the front seat and Crowley was cleaning cream cake off of Zira's lapel that he realized it was ten after eleven. The hellhound had never shown.

He must have frozen, because the next thing he knew was Zira gently prying his hands free and squeezing them gently, calling his name. "Crowley?"

Crowley blinked and shook his head. "What is it, angel?" he asked, slipping a hand free and wiping off the last smudge of cream on the light fabric.

"I was about to ask you the same question," Zira said in amusement. "Where's your head at, my dear?"

Crowley kept his eyes fixed on the lapel under his fingers, brushing away nonexistent crumbs. "I--" he broke off. "I think our work here is done, angel."

"What makes you say that, Crowley? Just last month you were insisting we stay through his birthday and maybe longer." Zira rubbed his thumb across the hand still in his possession.

How was he supposed to respond to that? Oh, angel, sorry that I didn't tell you, but we were supposed to be looking after the Antichrist for the last decade, but, whoops, I think it was the wrong kid? He could never say that. Even if Zira did believe him, it would take admitting that he was a demon, and that wasn't ever something Crowley wanted Zira to know about him.

"We couldn't leave before his birthday," Crowley settled on. "Birthdays mean something to boys of that age. But I think it's time we move on, Zira." He met his partner's eyes and tried for a warm smile. "I've missed spending time just with you."

His smile must have worked, because Zira relaxed and smiled back, tucking one hand around the side of Crowley's face and gently stroking his cheek with a thumb. "I've missed you as well, my dear. It's just not the same now, is it? Why don't we go home, and we can spend as much time together as we like."

At that, Crowley had to lean forward to rest his head against Zira's shoulder to hide his expression. As much time together as they'd like. What a cosmic joke. They had maybe, what, four, five days before Armageddon kicked off in earnest?

"I'd like that, angel," he said, his voice muffled by Zira's jacket and his grip tight on Zira's lapel.

Zira just wrapped his arms around Crowley, running a hand through his hair and rubbing his back soothingly with the other. "Then let's go home, my dear."

\--

Crowley could feel the final countdown of the universe ticking away in the back of his head. _Tick, tick, tick._ It was driving him mad. He stole every second he could get to rememorize Zira's features over and over again, knowing that those last memories might be the only things he would have to comfort himself during the Great War and whatever came after.

He wasn't sure what he was going to do. Most of him desperately wanted to wrap himself up in Zira and just wait for the world to end, cherishing every last moment he could get. That bit included the quiet voice that told him that Zira was over ninety now, and wouldn't make it too long even if the world didn't end. Another part of him knew how important the Earth and humanity were to Zira and wanted to keep trying to avert the Apocalypse for as long as possible, if for no other reason than to have something to remember him by. A more pragmatic portion of Crowley's consciousness reminded him that Hell would not be pleased by the realization that Warlock Dowling was not the Antichrist after all. That they would come for their vengeance and blow through whatever stood in their way, Zira included.

It was this last bit that Crowley listened to. "Angel, I'm going to pop out for an errand quick," he told Zira after they'd returned to the bookshop that Wednesday. "I should hopefully be home by dinnertime."

Zira, who had been listening to their telephone messages with a steadily deepening crease in his forehead, nodded absently. Then he looked up and gave Crowley a quick but warm smile. "That sounds fine, my dear. I need to go 'round the corner as well. I've got a message from a rare bookseller I know and he wants to meet with me."

By the time Crowley returned to the bookshop, sometime after dinner, he was working hard to dampen his temper. It wasn't Zira's fault that his journey to the Satanic convent in Tadfield had taken longer than expected and had been ultimately fruitless, after all. Despite the best of intentions, he hadn't been able to find anything he could use to placate Below. Instead, he'd gotten lost a few times, accidentally hit a cyclist, and finally found the convent only to discover it was now some kind of extreme team building center and all the records had burnt a decade previous.

He parked the Bentley in her customary spot in front of the bookshop. Just before he got out, he glanced in the rear-view mirror and spotted a book in the backseat that Zira must have left there during one of their previous trips. He grabbed the book without looking at it and let himself into the bookshop. "Angel?" he called softly. "I'm home."

There was a warm glow coming from the back room, but the tranquil scene he had expected was the opposite of what he found. Zira was sitting in his chair in front of the fire, but he wasn't looking at any of his books. Instead, he was staring at the fire unseeing, and it didn't seem as if he'd even heard Crowley come in.

"Angel? Zira?" Crowley asked more urgently, setting the book in his hand down on the nearest flat surface and moving to kneel in front of his partner, blocking Zira's view of the fireplace.

Zira blinked and his eyes focused on Crowley. "My dear," he said hopelessly. There were tear tracks on his cheeks.

Crowley's heart sank. "What's wrong, angel?" he whispered, pulling the cuff of his shirt up over his palm as much as possible and using it to carefully dry Zira's face.

Zira tried to give him a smile, but it ended up rather crooked. "I must seem a hopeless mess. The person I was meeting with gave me some news I wasn't expecting and...well, it just feels a bit like the end of the world."

Crowley gave a huff that might have been a laugh in another life. "I know the feeling," he said, giving in to the urge to wrap the fingers of one hand around Zira's where they were shaking slightly in his lap and pressing a gentle kiss to the tips of his fingers. "It'll be all right, angel," he lied.

Zira didn't look comforted. Instead, he stared at Crowley with a wondrous desperation that he recognized from his own face - the look of a man memorizing something precious he thinks he's going to lose.

The look broke Crowley's heart, but he didn't know anything he could say to comfort his partner. He just held his hand as - _tick, tick, tick_ \- the End drew nearer.

\--

The next two days were some of the longest Crowley could recall. It seemed almost as if the clock was pausing for breath between each - _tick _\- and every - _tick _\- beat - _tick _\- just to - _tick _\- make sure - _tick _\- that Crowley - _tick _\- was paying - _tick _\- attention. _Tick, tick, tick._

Zira's melancholy hadn't dissipated, but it had lifted slightly when he'd found the book Crowley had brought in for him. He almost seemed surprised to see it. Thursday morning found Zira at his desk hunched over the book with a pad of paper, though the paper was usually buried under a few pages when Crowley stopped by with tea or a reminder to eat, so he wasn't sure what was so fascinating about the book.

For himself, Crowley placed a discreet call to the Witchfinder Sergeant, requesting assistance in locating the real Antichrist. After that, he'd focused on realphabetizing the pair's collections of CDs and vinyl records, as well as Zira's personal (well, _more _personal) collection of rare books. Once that was done, he set to reorganizing the entire bookshop, all the while waiting for any sign that Hell had wised up.

By the time Saturday hit, Crowley was so wound up he could have passed for a grandfather clock himself. _Tick, tick, tick._

"My dear," Zira said with exasperation mid-morning when he surfaced for tea and biscuits. "You're wearing a hole in the rug. Why don't you go for a drive or something? Get out of the shop for a bit."

Crowley didn't want to leave Zira, but by this point he was sure the strain and stress of the last eleven years - much less the last three days - would have given him a heart attack for sure if it hadn't been for his occult conditioning. He begrudgingly agreed with Zira's assessment.

"I won't be gone long," he said, pressing a kiss to Zira's forehead. "Just a few hours. I have my mobile if you need to call me for anything. And I mean _anything _at all."

"Yes, Crowley," Zira said, obviously humoring him.

With a second and third glance back, Crowley left the bookshop.

He was trundling aimlessly down the streets of Soho (watching for pedestrians and stopping at crosswalks and everything), when the radio kicked on in a way it hadn't done for a decade, interrupting Bach's "Under Pressure."

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, CROWLEY? WHAT EXACTLY HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?

It continued on as expected from there. Crowley had been waiting for this particular moment, after all. Warlock had gotten to take a trip to the Middle East, but all that had come of it was Hell's discovery that the Antichrist Crowley had planted hadn't been the actual Antichrist at all.

STAY WHERE YOU ARE, CROWLEY, the voice trailed off ominously. YOU WILL BE..._COLLECTED_...

And wasn't he twelve shades of overjoyed that he wasn't at the bookshop right now, literally bringing Hell home with him? His fingers tightened on the wheel to the point where the leather creaked and he had to consciously relax before his arthritis flared up.

They were coming after him. Where could he go that Zira wouldn't be put in jeopardy? That Crowley had a snowball's chance of defending? Where--oh.

It came to him, and Crowley swung a left turn through a yellow light, giving only a cursory glance for pedestrians. He turned the nose of the Bentley towards Mayfair.

\--

Crowley had never bothered to pay rent on his Mayfair flat, because rent was a thing that happened to other people and he hadn't given the flat a second thought since he'd met Zira. Fortunately, the glass jar of holy water was still tucked safely behind the _Mona Lisa_. Unfortunately for Hastur and Ligur, Crowley was ruthless when it came to protecting Zira.

Now, deed done, he got back in the Bentley and turned her back towards the bookshop. It had been too long since he'd left Zira and with the Apocalypse imminent, he couldn't be too careful.

He was nearing the bookshop and starting to contemplate which sort of take-out would best lure Zira away from his book, when the sky - which was already full of dark, rain-heavy clouds - became even darker with plumes of thick, black smoke. Crowley got a very bad feeling. He dropped his foot heavier on the accelerator and urged the Bentley onward. Surely...no. It couldn't be--

It was.

The bookshop was on fire.

Crowley threw the Bentley in park and scrambled out of her. One of the firemen was trying to ascertain if he owned the building, and Crowley just shouted an affirmation over his shoulder as he burst through the door of Ezra Fell's Rare Books.

"Zira!" he screamed. "Zira! Where are you, angel?" There was no sign of his partner. Crowley rushed through the fire-lit bookshop, taking care to squint at the floor through flickering flames for any spot Zira might have fallen. There was no sign of Zira in the bookshop or in the back rooms. The kitchen was empty, as was the sitting room. The flames were almost too dense to see through and a human who needed to breathe - a human like Zira - would be unconscious from the smoke by now.

He hurried toward the stairs to the upper floor, but a sharp crack signaled the building's imminent collapse. "Zira!" A jet of water flew through one of the open windows, hitting Crowley and knocking him to the floor. One hand landed on something flat and hard and he reflexively grabbed it before hurrying out from under the collapsing building. The bookshop settled into place with a loud crash.

The firemen still surrounded the building, trying to keep the fire from spreading to the nearby buildings. One of them tried to grab Crowley to pull him to safety, but Crowley wrestled free and staggered back towards the shop, trying to see if Zira had been on the top floor. "Zira!" he yelled as loud as he could. "Zira!" He picked his way through the brick and wood, but all he could see was the remains of the life they had built.

"No, no, no, no," he chanted. "No, no. Zira!" His trousers kept catching fire, but Crowley just impatiently put them out. He had to be here somewhere. He had to be here and Crowley had to find him and pull him out and Zira had to be okay, because if he wasn't-- If something happened to Zira because Crowley was a demon-- Zira had to be okay.

"Zira," he called hoarsely, choking on smoke. "Zira!"

There was another ominous crack and the last brick wall that had remained more or less vertical began to topple, the rest of the structure following. Crowley had to backpedal, tripping over loose bricks, to keep from being inconveniently discorporated by falling masonry. With a great final crash the bookshop crumbled, until all that was left of the last five decades of Crowley's life was a pile of smoking rubble.

It started to rain.

The firemen were still rushing about him, but it seemed as if they'd gotten the worst of the fire under control. None of the neighboring buildings had been badly damaged and Crowley felt a rush of anger at the adult bookstore next door, where even the neon OPEN sign was still cheerily lit. But just as quickly as it had appeared, his fury drained away.

His knees gave out and he fell, catching himself on one palm. Crowley stared unseeing at his hands for a moment. They were old, wrinkled, bent with age and disease. They had grown this way steadily, year after year, as a way to keep pace with--

His eyes wandered over each finger, tracing its imperfections and recalling the years of miracles he had needed to layer over his appearance. When his gaze reached his second hand, he stopped.

He'd almost forgotten the object he had picked up from the floor of the bookshop. Crowley turned over and sat gingerly on the wet pavement. The rain dripped off his hair and trickled down his ears, but it didn't touch the book he held in his hands.

He held it carefully in his hands and recognized it as the book that-- The book he had grabbed out of the back of the Bentley. The cover was blank, but it was an old book and the title page gave it all away: _The Nife and Accurate Prophefies of Agnes Nutter, Being a Certaine and Prefice Hiftory from the Prefent Day Unto the Endinge of this World, Containing therein Many Diuerse Wonders and precepts for the Wife_.

Crowley's chest hurt and his eyes lingered over "Endinge." How had-- Crowley closed his eyes against the lump in his throat and took a shaky breath. How had _Zira_ managed to find this book in the first place? He couldn't have possibly known what it was. The bookshop's collection had held many books of prophecy, but this book, _this _one, the one that Crowley held in his hands, was the only one that was completely accurate.

Crowley had spent the first six thousands years of his life on Earth completely and utterly alone, isolated from the rest of Hell and separated from mankind by his very nature. Yet somehow, sitting in the cold rain at the end of the world watching as the last curls of smoke issued from the bookshop, he had never felt more alone.

He held the book up to his nose and took a deep breath, hoping for any traces of...there it was. Beneath the smoke and ash was the scent of old paper and long-dry ink. A smell Crowley was more familiar with than his own name. It smelled like _home _and it smelled like _Zira_.

Something brushed against his wrist and Crowley looked down to find a note had slipped free of the book's pages. How it hadn't gotten lost in Crowley's frantic searching he didn't know. The handwriting on it looked familiar, but then again all copperplate looked vaguely alike and this script lacked the rough edges that had begun to characterize Zira's writing in recent years. It laid out the events of the last days, including the name of the Antichrist (Adam Young) and the location of Armageddon (the Lower Tadfield Air Base).

Until he'd returned to find the bookshop engulfed in flame, Crowley had still been stuck between warring impulses to hold Zira and watch the world burn or to do his best to halt the Apocalypse, futile as the effort might have been. Now, though...now he just wanted the world to end as quickly as possible. Absently, Crowley noted that the notes on this slip of paper would have been very important information to him a scant hour before, when he was trying to find any scrap of information that might keep Zira out of Hell's reach--

He froze, then, unbidden, his eyes slid back up to trace the rubble. He hadn't found Zira. He hadn't even found Zira's _body_. In a rush, he scrambled to his feet and ran towards the Bentley. Her door flew open before he'd even reached her and he swung nimbly into the cab. The book was dropped in the seat next to him and the slip was held in his hand as Crowley slammed his foot on the accelerator and headed for Tadfield.

If Zira hadn't been there...if Zira hadn't been in the ruins at _all_, then there were a finite number of reasons. One, he had gone out on an errand. Crowley knew this one was merely wishful thinking. Zira had been happy as a clam in the shop when he'd left and there was no reason to think he would have gone out. Two, Zira had-- Crowley swallowed roughly. Zira had _died _in the shop and either Crowley hadn't found him or he'd been incinerated beyond recognition before Crowley had gotten there. Three - and this was the one Crowley hoped for and feared in equal measure - Crowley's patient and caring partner had been found by the forces of Hell and snatched as part of Crowley's promised torment.

If it was the second, Crowley would make sure the Apocalypse ran as expected. There was no point to an Earth if it didn't have Zira in it. If it was the first, the world wasn’t expected to survive much longer anyway. If it was the third...well then, Crowley would just have to get his Zira back from Hell, no matter what it took. Luckily, he knew exactly where they were going to be.

The clouds rumbled ominously as Crowley pressed the accelerator flat to the floorboards, headed toward the M25. _Tick, tick, tick._

\--

When Crowley was younger, he hadn't cared much for traffic laws. Those were meant for mortals, after all, and he was anything but. After he'd met Zira, he'd become more circumspect. Zira _was _mortal, with all the soft, easily squished bits that came with the condition.

Now, with Zira's life and the world's fate in the balance, Crowley did one hundred and twenty miles an hour down Oxford Street.

\--

The Lower Tadfield Air Base was quiet when Crowley got there. No one ran out when the Bentley died in front of the gate and when Crowley stumbled out he realized that the reason for it was that the guardhouse wasn't manned. The gate opened easily at his touch.

Crowley kept an eye out, but didn't see any people as he walked into the base. He rounded a building and stopped in his tracks. It looked like he'd missed the main event. Only one of the Horsepersons was still there and as Crowley watched Death vanished in a flash of dark wings. That left a quartet of pre-teens, Sergeant Shadwell himself, and a woman that Crowley vaguely recognized as one of Shadwell's friends.

One of the children was a boy with golden curls who looked to be in charge of things, if Crowley was any judge of body language. He was surveying the adults imperiously and said something Crowley couldn't quite make out. Then, suddenly, instead of there being two adults standing there, there were three, and the third was--

"Zira," Crowley breathed, his feet moving before he could give them conscious direction, propelling him towards his partner. "Zira!" he called louder.

Zira turned at his name and _yes_ it _was_ Zira. Still wrinkled, still with grey-streaked hair, wearing the jacket, vest, and tartan bow tie he'd worn that morning without a spot of soot on him. He was the most gorgeous thing Crowley had ever seen.

"Crowley?" he asked in surprise.

Before he could move, Crowley had reached him and wrapped his arms tightly around Zira in the same motion. "Goodness gracious, angel," Crowley said faintly, holding Zira tightly and breathing in the familiar scent of his hair. "I thought I'd lost you."

"Oh, my dear," Zira said, returning Crowley's hug. "I was so worried about you, too." Then he paused and tried to pull back. After a moment Crowley relented and loosened his grip just enough for them to make eye contact.

Zira was frowning in bewilderment. "But, my dear," he protested. "How on earth did you get here?"

Before Crowley could begin to attempt to explain the mess with the book and the Bentley and the M25, the boy - Adam Young, if Crowley's guess was correct - broke in. "'Ang on," he said. "What are the two of you on about?"

"This is Zira," Crowley explained. He didn't step away far, but he did drop his arms and fold his hands ever-so-carefully around Zira's. Go--Sat--_Somebody_, he'd never thought he'd have this again. "He own--er, has a bookshop in central London." That bookshop is now a loosely piled stack of bricks, Crowley added silently, but there was no telling whether or not Zira knew that, so he kept mum. "We've been living together for just over fifty years."

Zira leaned into Crowley. "This is--"

But Adam interrupted. "He's also an angel," the boy told Crowley bluntly.

Crowley would have just dismissed his words, but Zira froze next to him, his fingers spasming slightly in Crowley's hold. "Angel?" he asked the man next to him. Well, he meant it as a term of endearment, but as an interrogation it worked just as well.

Zira didn't meet his eyes. "It's nothing."

Crowley didn't let it go. His heart was starting to beat faster and his mouth went dry. "Are you really an angel?"

"Yes," Zira admitted quietly to Crowley's shoulder.

"_Angel_," Crowley breathed in awe.

Zira raised his chin to look Crowley in the eye. He looked miserable. "It's not as entertaining as it sounds, my dear," he said. "It means that I'm immortal and I'm just going to have to watch you--"

"Me, too," Crowley blurted out.

"What?" Zira looked puzzled.

"I'm immortal too," Crowley told him, stunned by the realization. "Neither of us is going to die."

"What?" Zira asked breathlessly, eyes wide.

Crowley understood exactly how he felt. "I get to _keep_ you," he said with wonder in his voice.

A bolt of lightning struck the pavement, cutting short their conversation and drawing everyone's attention. A moment later, a dark figure rose up from churning earth. That one Crowley recognized. It was Beelzebub.

He quickly pulled his hands free of Zira's and hoped the Prince of Hell hadn't noticed.

What followed was a conversation that Crowley had a slow start wrapping his mind around. It sounded like Heaven was also rooting for the Apocalypse? He shot a sideways glance at Zira. He at least seemed to think they did. It was starting to sink in just how much he and Zira had missed about each other's lives and how much more they could have helped each other. Wednesday, Crowley realized. When they'd gotten back from Warlock's. That must have been when Zira found out about Armageddon. He remembered the way Zira had trembled. I could have helped, he thought.

Adam seemed to be holding his own against the two entities, but just as Crowley was beginning to think it would all be wrapped up soon and he could get back to his angel - _angel_ in truth - the boy hesitated, and the pair began to circle like sharks smelling blood in the water.

And that was when Zira, his beautiful angel, spoke up. After a moment, Crowley realized where he was going with his line of questioning and added comments where he could. It felt good, like one of their late-night debates on dolphins or an obscure point of ancient history that both of them somehow happened to know about. _Archaeology Monthly_, my foot, Crowley thought giddily. Every so often, Zira would glance at Crowley, excitement and love brimming in his gaze.

At last Crowley and Zira seemed to have introduced enough doubt into the equation for Adam to reassert his position. Beelzebub and the Heavenly representative disappeared in a cloud of mumbled excuses, and the Air Base began to breathe again. Another pair of humans had shown up and a conversation kicked off, but Crowley ignored it all in favor of focusing on his partner.

"That was brilliant," Crowley told him.

Zira blushed. "It really wasn't much of anything."

"That's a lie," Crowley said firmly. "It was amazing. I only wish I'd gotten to see you in action more, angel."

There was so much unbridled affection in Zira's eyes that Crowley was worried for a moment that he'd spontaneously catch fire. One of Zira's hands came up to rest briefly on his cheek before he straightened and cleared his throat.

"Let me introduce myself again, properly this time," Zira said and held out his hand primly in the small space between them. "My name is Aziraphale, a Principality of Heaven, formerly Guardian of the Eastern Gate. I have been stationed on Earth since Eden and I am desperately in love with you." As he spoke, the years fell off of him, leaving him the same man Crowley had run into in a Soho church in 1967.

Crowley shook his hand, then held on, reveling in the last moments he might have to hold it. Once he revealed who he was... He let the last five decades melt away as well. "Crowley, Serpent of Eden and the First Tempter. I was assigned to the temptation of Earth six thousand years ago." He cleared his throat. "I have been in love with you since you saved me from accidentally destroying myself with a jar of holy water."

Zira's - _Aziraphale's_ \- eyes grew wide, but he didn't pull away. If anything, he held Crowley's hand more tightly. "Was that-- What were you doing with holy water, Crowley?"

Crowley blinked at the line of questioning - hadn't he just told Aziraphale that he was a demon? - but then realized that Aziraphale wasn't angry at him for existing, Aziraphale was scared for him, scared of the one thing that could have taken Crowley away forever.

A warm, sunshine-y feeling took up residence in Crowley's chest. "It was for protection," he explained. "Below was getting loud and that usually comes with consequences." Aziraphale didn't looked reassured. "If it makes you feel better," Crowley tried, "I don't have it anymore. I used it on Ligur this afternoon."

Aziraphale definitely didn't look reassured now. If anything, he looked alarmed, running his eyes and hands over Crowley, checking for any damage he'd somehow missed.

"I'm fine, angel," Crowley said, trying to sound exasperated through his smile. He caught Aziraphale's hands and brought them to his lips, kissing first one hand, then the other. He marveled at the differences between the hands he held now and the ones he'd been holding just a few minutes before. He rubbed a thumb across the supple skin on the back of Aziraphale's hand. "I'm perfectly fine."

A deep rumbling interrupted Aziraphale's reply. The angel shot Crowley a worried look and he sent one back. That wasn't a good sign.

A burning smell wafted past and Crowley's eyes widened in realization. Aziraphale wound one hand more tightly around Crowley's and let go with the other so he could get a better view of the entire scene.

"It's Him," Crowley said, fear making his voice flat. "It's Adam's Father."

Aziraphale leaned down as far as he could without letting go of Crowley and picked up a sword on the ground that must have been left behind during some of the earlier excitement. It looked a bit familiar.

"Haven't used this in a while," Aziraphale murmured, waving it through the air before _whump_ it caught on fire. Now Crowley recognized it. The Guardian of the Western Gate had had a sword very much like this one.

There wasn't much left for Crowley to grab, but he spotted a Jeep nearby and let go of Aziraphale's hand just long enough to catch hold of the first thing he could find. Tire iron in hand, Crowley returned to his angel and threaded his fingers through Aziraphale's, holding him close.

They didn't say anything, just glanced at each other, but Crowley knew they were on the same page. Adam may have successfully averted the Apocalypse, but that didn't mean the danger had passed.

Crowley had just gotten his eternity back and he was damned if Lucifer was going to take it away from him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [An Ancient Place (the by his side remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22071205) by [DoctorTrekLock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock)


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